the lily of the valley(幽谷百合)-第18章

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light　breaks　through；　mingled　with　shadows　or　tinted　with　sunset　reds
athwart　the　leaves　which　gleam　like　the　colored　windows　of　a　chancel：
then；　leaving　these　woods　so　cool　and　branchy；　behold　a　chalk…land
lying　fallow；　where　among　the　warm　and　cavernous　mosses　adders　glide
to　their　lairs；　or　lift　their　proud　slim　heads。　Cast　upon　all　these
pictures　torrents　of　sunlight　like　beneficent　waters；　or　the　shadow　of
gray　clouds　drawn　in　lines　like　the　wrinkles　of　an　old　man's　brow；　or
the　cool　tones　of　a　sky　faintly　orange　and　streaked　with　lines　of　a
paler　tint；　then　listenyou　will　hear　indefinable　harmonies　amid　a
silence　which　blends　them　all。

During　the　months　of　September　and　October　I　did　not　make　a　single
bouquet　which　cost　me　less　than　three　hours　search；　so　much　did　I
admire；　with　the　real　sympathy　of　a　poet；　these　fugitive　allegories　of
human　life；　that　vast　theatre　I　was　about　to　enter；　the　scenes　of
which　my　memory　must　presently　recall。　Often　do　I　now　compare　those
splendid　scenes　with　memories　of　my　soul　thus　expending　itself　on
nature；　again　I　walk　that　valley　with　my　sovereign；　whose　white　robe
brushed　the　coppice　and　floated　on　the　green　sward；　whose　spirit　rose；
like　a　promised　fruit；　from　each　calyx　filled　with　amorous　stamens。

No　declaration　of　love；　no　vows　of　uncontrollable　passion　ever
conveyed　more　than　these　symphonies　of　flowers；　my　baffled　desires
impelled　me　to　efforts　of　expression　through　them　like　those　of
Beethoven　through　his　notes；　to　the　same　bitter　reactions；　to　the　same
mighty　bounds　towards　heaven。　In　their　presence　Madame　de　Mortsauf　was
my　Henriette。　She　looked　at　them　constantly；　they　fed　her　spirit；　she
gathered　all　the　thoughts　I　had　given　them；　saying；　as　she　raised　her
head　from　the　embroidery　frame　to　receive　my　gift；　〃Ah；　how
beautiful！〃

Natalie；　you　will　understand　this　delightful　intercourse　through　the
details　of　a　bouquet；　just　as　you　would　comprehend　Saadi　from　a
fragment　of　his　verse。　Have　you　ever　smelt　in　the　fields　in　the　month
of　May　the　perfume　that　communicates　to　all　created　beings　the
intoxicating　sense　of　a　new　creation；　the　sense　that　makes　you　trail
your　hand　in　the　water　from　a　boat；　and　loosen　your　hair　to　the　breeze
while　your　mind　revives　with　the　springtide　greenery　of　the　trees？　A
little　plant；　a　species　of　vernal　grass；　is　a　powerful　element　in　this
veiled　harmony；　it　cannot　be　worn　with　impunity；　take　into　your　hand
its　shining　blade；　striped　green　and　white　like　a　silken　robe；　and
mysterious　emotions　will　stir　the　rosebuds　your　modesty　keeps　hidden
in　the　depths　of　your　heart。　Round　the　neck　of　a　porcelain　vase
imagine　a　broad　margin　of　the　gray…white　tufts　peculiar　to　the　sedum
of　the　vineyards　of　Touraine；　vague　image　of　submissive　forms；　from
this　foundation　come　tendrils　of　the　bind…weed　with　its　silver　bells；
sprays　of　pink　rest…barrow　mingled　with　a　few　young　shoots　of　oak…
leaves；　lustrous　and　magnificently　colored；　these　creep　forth
prostrate；　humble　as　the　weeping…willow；　timid　and　supplicating　as
prayer。　Above；　see　those　delicate　threads　of　the　purple　amoret；　with
its　flood　of　anthers　that　are　nearly　yellow；　the　snowy　pyramids　of　the
meadow…sweet；　the　green　tresses　of　the　wild　oats；　the　slender　plumes
of　the　agrostis；　which　we　call　wind…ear；　roseate　hopes；　decking　love's
earliest　dream　and　standing　forth　against　the　gray　surroundings。　But
higher　still；　remark　the　Bengal　roses；　sparsely　scattered　among　the
laces　of　the　daucus；　the　plumes　of　the　linaria；　the　marabouts　of　the
meadow…queen；　see　the　umbels　of　the　myrrh；　the　spun　glass　of　the
clematis　in　seed；　the　dainty　petals　of　the　cross…wort；　white　as　milk；
the　corymbs　of　the　yarrow；　the　spreading　stems　of　the　fumitory　with
their　black　and　rosy　blossoms；　the　tendrils　of　the　grape；　the　twisted
shoots　of　the　honeysuckle；　in　short；　all　the　innocent　creatures　have
that　is　most　tangled；　wayward；　wild；flames　and　triple　darts；　leaves
lanceolated　or　jagged；　stalks　convoluted　like　passionate　desires
writhing　in　the　soul。　From　the　bosom　of　this　torrent　of　love　rises　the
scarlet　poppy；　its　tassels　about　to　open；　spreading　its　flaming　flakes
above　the　starry　jessamine；　dominating　the　rain　of　pollenthat　soft
mist　fluttering　in　the　air　and　reflecting　the　light　in　its　myriad
particles。　What　woman　intoxicated　with　the　odor　of　the　vernal　grasses
would　fail　to　understand　this　wealth　of　offered　thoughts；　these　ardent
desires　of　a　love　demanding　the　happiness　refused　in　a　hundred
struggles　which　passion　still　renews；　continuous；　unwearying；　eternal！

Put　this　speech　of　the　flowers　in　the　light　of　a　window　to　show　its
crisp　details；　its　delicate　contrasts；　its　arabesques　of　color；　and
allow　the　sovereign　lady　to　see　a　tear　upon　some　petal　more　expanded
than　the　rest。　What　do　we　give　to　God？　perfumes；　light；　and　song；　the
purest　expression　of　our　nature。　Well；　these　offerings　to　God；　are
they　not　likewise　offered　to　love　in　this　poem　of　luminous　flowers
murmuring　their　sadness　to　the　heart；　cherishing　its　hidden
transports；　its　unuttered　hopes；　its　illusions　which　gleam　and　fall　to
fragments　like　the　gossamer　of　a　summer's　night？

Such　neutral　pleasures　help　to　soothe　a　nature　irritated　by　long
contemplation　of　the　person　beloved。　They　were　to　me；　I　dare　not　say
to　her；　like　those　fissures　in　a　dam　through　which　the　water　finds　a
vent　and　avoids　disaster。　Abstinence　brings　deadly　exhaustion；　which　a
few　crumbs　falling　from　heaven　like　manna　in　the　desert；　suffices　to
relieve。　Sometimes　I　found　my　Henriette　standing　before　these　bouquets
with　pendant　arms；　lost　in　agitated　reverie；　thoughts　swelling　her
bosom；　illumining　her　brow　as　they　surged　in　waves　and　sank　again；
leaving　lassitude　and　languor　behind　them。　Never　again　have　I　made　a
bouquet　for　any　one。　When　she　and　I　had　created　this　language　and
formed　it　to　our　uses；　a　satisfaction　filled　our　souls　like　that　of　a
slave　who　escapes　his　masters。

During　the　rest　of　this　month　as　I　came　from　the　meadows　through　the
gardens　I　often　saw　her　face　at　the　window；　and　when　I　reached　the
salon　she　was　ready　at　her　embroidery　frame。　If　I　did　not　arrive　at
the　hour　expected　（though　never　appointed）；　I　saw　a　white　form
wandering　on　the　terrace；　and　when　I　joined　her　she　would　say；　〃I　came
to　meet　you；　I　must　show　a　few　attentions　to　my　youngest　child。〃

The　miserable　games　of　backgammon　had　come　to　end。　The　count's　late
purchases　took　all　his　time　in　going　hither　and　thither　about　the
property；　surveying；　examining；　and　marking　the　boundaries　of　his　new
possessions。　He　had　orders　to　give；　rural　works　to　overlook　which
needed　a　master's　eye；all　of　them　planned　and　decided　on　by　his　wife
and　himself。　We　often　went　to　meet　him；　the　countess　and　I；　with　the
children；　who　amused　themselves　on　the　way　by　running　after　insects；
stag…beetles；　darning…needles；　they　too　making　their　bouquets；　or　to
speak　more　truly；　their　bundles　of　flowers。　To　walk　beside　the　woman
we　love；　to　take　her　on　our　arm；　to　guide　her　steps；these　are
illimitable　joys　that　suffice　a　lifetime。　Confidence　is　then　complete。
We　went　alone；　we　returned　with　the　〃general；〃　a　title　given　to　the
count　when　he　was　good…humored。　These　two　ways　of　taking　the　same　path
gave　light　and　shade　to　our　pleasure；　a　secret　known　only　to　hearts
debarred　from　union。　Our　talk；　so　free　as　we　went；　had　hidden
significations　as　we　returned；　when　either　of　us　gave　an　answer　to
some　furtive　interrogation；　or　continued　a　subject；　already　begun；　in
the　enigmatic　phrases　to　which　our　language　lends　itself；　and　which
women　are　so　ingenious　in　composing。　Who　has　not　known　the　pleasure　of
such　secret　understandings　in　a　sphere　apart　from　those　about　us；　a
sphere　where　spirits　meet　outside　of　social　laws？

One　day　a　wild　hope；　quickly　dispelled；　took　possession　of　me；　when
the　count；　wishing　to　know　what　we　were　talking　of；　put　the　inquiry；
and　Henriette　answered　in　words　that　allowed　another　meaning；　which
satisfied　him。　This　amused　Madeleine；　who　laughed；　after　a　moment　her
mother　blushed　and　gave　me　a　forbidding　look；　as　if　to　say　she　might
still　withdraw　from　me　her　soul　as　she　had　once　withdrawn　her　hand。
But　our　purely　spiritual　union　had　far　too　many　charms；　and　on　the
morrow　it　continued　as　before。

The　hours；　days；　and　weeks　fled　by；　filled　with　renascent　joys。　Grape
harvest；　the　festal　season　in　Touraine；　began。　Toward　the　end　of
September　the　sun；　less　hot　than　during　the　wheat　harvest；　allows　of
our　staying　in　the　vineyards　without　danger　of　becoming　overheated。　It
is　easier　to　gather　grapes　than　to　mow　wheat。　Fruits　of　all　kinds　are
ripe；　harvests　are　garnered；　bread　is　less　dear；　the　sense　of　plenty
makes　the　country　people　happy。　Fears　as　to　the　results　of　rural　toil；
in　which　more　money　than　sweat　is　often　spent；　vanish　before　a　full
granary　and　cellars　about　to　overflow。　The　vintage　is　then　like　a　gay
dessert　after　the　dinner　is　eaten；　the　skies　of　Touraine；　where　the
autumns　are　always　magnificent；　smile　upon　it。　In　this　hospitable　land
the　vintagers　are　fed　and　lodged　in　the　master's　house。　The　meals　are
the　only　ones　throughout　the　year　when　these　poor　people　taste
substantial；　well…cooked　food；　and　they　cling　to　the　custom　as　the
children　of　patriarchal　families　cling　to　anniversaries。　As　the　time
approaches　they　flock　in　crowds　to　those　houses　where　the　masters　are
known　to　treat　the　laborers　liberally。　The　house　is　full　of　people　and
of　provisions。　The　presses　are　open。　The　country　is　alive　with　the
coming　and　going　of　itinerant　coopers；　of　carts　filled　with　laughing
girls　and　joyous　husbandmen；　who　earn　better　wages　than　at　any　other
time　during　the　year；　and　who　sing　as　they　go。　There　is　also　another
cause　of　pleasurable　content：　classes　and　ranks　are　equal；　women；
children；　masters；　and　men；　all　that　little　world；　share　in　the
garnering　of　the　divine　hoard。　These　various　elements　of　satisfaction
explain　the　hilarity　of　the　vintage；　transmitted　from　age　to　age　in
these　last　glorious　days　of　autumn；　the　remembrance　of　which　inspired
Rabelais　with　the　bacchic　form　of　his　great　work。

The　children；　Jacques　and　Madeleine；　had　never　seen　a　vintage；　I　was
like　them；　and　they　were　full　of　infantine　delight　at　finding　a　sharer
of　their　pleasure；　their　mother；　too；　promised　to　accompany　us。　We
went　to　Villaines；　where　baskets　are　manufactured；　in　quest　of　the
prettiest　that　could　be　bought；　for　we　four　were　to　cut　certain　rows
reserved　for　our　scissors；　it　was；　however；　agreed　that　none　of　us
were　to　eat　too　many　grapes。　To　eat　the　fat　bunches　of　Touraine　in　a
vineyard　seemed　so　delicious　that　we　all　refused　the　finest　grapes　on
the　dinner…table。　Jacques　made　me　swear　I　would　go　to　no　other
vineyard；　but　stay　closely　at　Clochegourde。　Never　were　these　frail
little　beings；　usually　pallid　and　smiling；　so　fresh　and　rosy　and
active　as　they　were　this　morning。　They　chattered　for　chatter's　sake；
and　trotted　about　without　apparent　object；　they　suddenly　seemed；　like
other　children；　to　have　more　life　than　they　needed；　neither　Monsieur
nor　Madame　de　Mortsauf　had　ever　seen　them　so　before。　I　became　a　child
again　with　them；　more　of　a　child　than　either　of　them；　perhaps；　I；　too；
was　hoping　for